By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
Rickie Lee Jones doesn't want to be here. Well, here, maybe -- in the Novel Cafe in Santa Monica, a nice place for a cup of coffee or a light lunch. Rare and used books line the walls, and patrons keep to themselves. It's a pleasant enough spot to kill an afternoon.
Jones just doesn't want to be here -- in front of the tape recorder, answering questions, going on the record about her new CD. Even with friend and collaborator Rick Boston, the former Low Pop Suicide frontman since gone solo, by her side, she's uncomfortable in such an artificial setting, revealing intimate things to a stranger with a note pad. Better she talk over the phone, where she can't look you in the eye.
"I'm really engaged in you: Are you happy? Do you like me?" she explains. "Those kinds of things happen more in person than they would if I didn't see you or care about you. And when there's a purpose, the conversation is corrupted. There's a purpose in promotion. I want everyone to hear the record, but I have a kind of humbleness and a kind of integrity that doesn't want to promote it."
It is not so surprising that Jones would prefer to keep to herself. Until only a few months ago, she lived in Ojai, out in the dusty nowhere about 80 miles northwest of Los Angeles. She moved there for her young daughter, to raise her away from a Hollywood in which Jones herself came of age. But she came back -- she needed adult company, needed the taste of a martini, needed to play again in the small clubs to the friendly faces. She came back to, for lack of a better phrase, find herself, to recreate Rickie Lee Jones in her own image. She wanted to make new music, to leave behind that lone hit single and the records that followed; she wanted to find an unknown audience, one that didn't expect her to return as she had left.
So she shows up at Largo, an intimate L.A. club, every now and then, playing the occasional three-hour-and-forever gig that ends only when the martinis pull the covers down on her sleepy eyes. Call it the occasional indulgence, a little blurry fun every once in a while. Last October she tried out a couple of songs from her then-forthcoming record, Ghostyhead, and played till she literally wept, closing down the joint at threesomething in the a.m. with an old Dylan song. She choked on the words as a hardy handful watched; she cried with such unabashed glory that those who remained felt like voyeurs. "That was my martini night," Jones recalls of that evening, smiling at the memory of a memory.
Ghostyhead provides rare proof that even the most entrenched artist can be reborn in middle age. Those who would accuse Jones of jumping on the techno bandwagon -- as many reviewers are already doing -- miss the point: With its loops and samples, Ghostyhead is the ambient inevitability, the record Jones was born to make ever since she stood up on tiny L.A. stages in the mid-1970s. It's like a collection of short stories and poems set to daydream melodies and nightmare vibrations, a record haunted by junkies and abortions and faded photographs and ghosts drifting through abandoned neighborhoods. Everybody's looking for something better -- and doomed never to find it.
Through it all, Jones's voice dips and dives through sputtering beats and metallic echoes and guitar loops. Yet the record doesn't sound so different from what came before and it doesn't smack of mere trend-hopping. Rather, Ghostyhead is what happens when a musician reinvents herself out of necessity, when she stops trying to fulfill faded expectations and begins writing only for herself.
Jones claims she never wanted to be a superstar; rather, she wanted to cultivate a cult following. She liked the idea of loyal fans who stuck with you throughout a career, not merely a single; she didn't want to be the one-hit wonder, the out-of-the-box sensation who would be forced by fickle fans to repeat yesterday's moves.
But such was not to be her fate: In 1979, on the eve of the release of her eponymous debut, "Chuck E.'s in Love" sat among the nation's top five singles; in an instant, the woman on the cover of Tom Waits's Blue Valentine was a platinum superstar -- Van Morrison in the guise of a 25-year-old raised in Phoenix, a new bohemian who brought bebop vocals and beatnik arrangements to pop radio.
She got lucky, some might say -- hit it big with an accidental gem. But her career would suffer for such providence: Though 1981's remarkable, intimate Pirates went to number five on the album charts, the records that followed -- Girl at Her Volcano, The Magazine, Flying Cowboys, Pop Pop and Traffic from Paradise -- sold poorly by comparison. By the time of 1991's Pop Pop, Jones had to struggle with the fact that her own label, Geffen, was putting big money behind Edie Brickell, a woman who sounded like a parrot raised on Rickie Lee Jones.